


Tomato Soup

by cabritinho



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Hi it's almost 5 a.m. and I have insomnia :), Surrealism, that's all it is surrealistic gorey bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 04:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17298113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabritinho/pseuds/cabritinho
Summary: Succumb.





	Tomato Soup

The tendrils of long hair sprawled buoyant atop the blood. The wine color contrasted the cobalt hair sharply, yet complemented it perfectly, as though the two were meant to be. As though he were meant to be. 

Deeper within the tub Sal plunged himself, until the red met his collarbone. His knees, opposite to his torso, rose, wet with the milky blood. It was comforting, the warmth. It enveloped him in a consuming embrace and solaced his misery, like the hug from a living companion. Well, that comparison was null--Sal knew that the liquid that bathed him was indeed alive. Alive with the essence of so, so many. 

Alive with himself, for it was now his blood, not theirs. 

He had no face. Only wounds. And from those wounds it poured like the faucet. 

He shifted slightly, and with him, so did the current. It spilled over the rim of the tub, onto the nonexistent ground beneath it. Into the darkness in which he resided, expanding in all of its endless eternity. 

Sal could hear the ticking of time--all of the time that was to be and that he had lost. All of it. All time. The brass clocks were suspended above him in the nothingness. All were set to different times, and all progressed at different rates. Yet they all ticked in synchronization with each other. 

With his own beating heart. 

He swore that when he neglected their attention, they were heart valves in the corner of his eye. 

Deeper he sank. The blood was up to his eyes. His flesh had begun to dissipate within the bath, and his facial muscle and skin melted away into it. 

He rose his hand above the horizon, and heavy droplets fell from his bone. With his hand, he held gore fished from the bath. Was it his? No, it couldn't have been. Death chewed at his seams, but, no--it wasn't his. It was someone else's. Someone he once knew. Many he once knew. 

He sighed--a lilting bubble upon the surface. The hand and gore plopped back into the warm, warm blood in defeat. 

Deeper, deeper. Sal was now submerged entirely within. The endlessness became red, red, red--an ocean of red. His blue hair was the only variant. It floated above him from his scalp in fluid tendrils. 

Darker it became. Darker, deeper, deeper, darker, red, red, red, black, deeper, darker, black, black, black. 

Nothing.


End file.
